The Reconciliation of the Dragonborn
by Theonewhodidnotdoit
Summary: At the end of his life, the Last Dragonborn seeks purity. He sets out to purge himself of his sins, to make himself worthy of joining the hallowed warriors of Sovngarde. The path will not be easy, as many powerful entities would stand against him. But he will endure. Victory... or Sovngarde. Twoshot.
1. Chapter 1

**The Reconciliation of the Dragonborn**

**A quick two-shot that I had to get out of my system before I could focus on my main stories. I always wondered what would happen after the Dragonborn retired, and when he drew close to death… All the pacts with the Daedric Princes would come calling, each wanting his soul for eternity. Sovngarde beckons, but the Dragonborn must prove his worth. **

**He has shown great kindness to many, and shamelessly murdered and betrayed others. Now he must face a foe far stronger than Alduin, far stronger than Harkon, far stronger than Miraak.**

**Himself.**

The Dragonborn sat on the balcony of his beloved Lakeview Manor, looking out over the view than never failed to take his breath away. Many a time from this spot he had spotted a dragon circling a far-off peak, and had had to haul himself through the river to save the people of Skyrim yet again, but now all was quiet. He took a breath of the crisp, cold air he had come to know as home. The wind rustled through the trees, stirring his thinning grey hair and long beard. The years had been kind to him, giving him strength that had not diminished with time, but had hardened and endured.

He adjusted himself on his seat, and his armour creaked around him. The quicksilver metal of Nordic steel glinted in the cold morning light, every inch perfectly contoured by hands that had become known as the greatest smith in Tamriel. The helmet sat on the table in front of him, beside a few other items.

He reached for his tankard, taking a swig of the finest Black-Briar preserve. So many years ago, he had threatened Maven Black-Briar with death for her crimes against Skyrim's people, and once she discovered that he was one enemy that the Dark Brotherhood would not help sweep under the carpet, or even the Thieves' guild, she had reformed her actions immensely. She even sent a case of mead round once in a while. Draining his tankard, the Dragonborn looked over the other items on the table.

A black soul gem. Inside, there could be seen a small threshing red vapour, a spirit contorted with rage at its imprisonment. It contained his vampirism. Serana's gift was not the path of the Sovngarde-bound, and with the help of Morthal's resident wizard, he had imprisoned it in the gem. She had been understanding, and had even helped in the acquisition of the gem. How many years had it been since he had seen her? Twenty at least. He wondered if she would even recognise him now.

The next was a small bowl, usually used for alchemical ingredients, containing a pile of ash. Ash from a Glenmoril Witches' head, cast into the flame of the Harbinger deep within Ysgramor's tomb to tear the beast blood from his body. Hircine might try, but he would not be tempted by the allure of an everlasting hunt.

Five letters sat in a pile by his left hand. The first four announced his resignation from the leadership of the Companions, the College of Winterhold, the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, explaining his situation, decisions and successors. The fifth was to be left on the dining table indoors, to be found by his son and daughter when they next visited. It contained his last will and testament, distributing his sizable fortune among the deserving of Skyrim, and the ownership of his properties to his descendants. Fairly enough, he reckoned.

By his helmet stood his weapon. The finest in the land. The saviour of Skyrim's mastery over every craft had crystallised into the most formidable weapon ever to spill blood over the soil of Tamriel. Not always the deserving's blood either. A Dragonbone Greatsword, sharpened to an edge that could cut through a block of solid ebony, glowing with powerful enchantments capable of killing even those who did not make contact with the blade. Many had died in the elemental storms conjured by the weapon, though never having rended their flesh directly. He had named it Alduin's Fang, after his old enemy, and in his legacy of his endless destruction. He picked it up, sheathing it over his back, and scooped up the letters, too. Handing them to his housecarl, he muttered instructions and they scurried off. He slowly walked down the steps he had made himself, trailing a hand down the wall. He reached the bottom, and stopped before a weathered headstone. It read:

**To Ysolda**

**Of the winking eye,**

**The bottomless heart, **

**Tamer of the Dragonborn,**

**None do not mourn her.**

He stared deeply at the stone. His wife had died years ago, but the wound was as fresh as an axe's bite. He donned his helmet, and turned away. He would see her soon. But one thing remained to do before he could depart.

He set off down the road, north-east, heading towards the towering peak of the Throat of the World.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The ice-bound peak greeted him with a ferocious wind, unforgiving after his murder of their custodian. The bones of the ancient dragon Parthurnax lay before the snow-covered word wall, a legacy of the Dragonborn's mindless ferocity. Now, in an age that had seen the hubris of his youth, the Dragonborn sat by the corpse's head, as if it were an old friend.

With one hand, he began to wipe the snow off the weathered skull, muttering under his breath, as if the dragon could still hear him.

"I will join you soon, old friend." The words barely left his lips before the winds tore them into the air, off into the sky. The Last Dragonborn stood up, and unhooked a satchel from his belt. Inside, trophies won in the distant past glittered in the frost off his breath. The masks of the long-forgotten Dragon Priests. One by one, he removed each from their place, pushing each into the snow covering the word wall. Leering out at him with the same, timeless expression, he no longer knew whether the items were enemies or friends.

Hevnoraak. Krosis. Morokei. Nahkriin. Otar. Rahgot. Vokun. Volsung. The first eight. The keys to the shrine in Labyrinthian. Artefacts that defied the laws of time itself…

More followed. Above the horizontal line he had placed the first eight in, he placed Konahriik. The golden tusks began to drip icicles, almost as if the mask was crying. Below the line, he placed the wooden mask, the most mysterious of them all, having been found by the body of an executed scholar with nothing but an orcish thug's note to explain its origins.

The final four masks he placed in a diamond surrounding the whole array. The masks of the priests of Solstheim, attuned to the magic of the elements. Ahzidal. Dukaan. Zahkriisos. Miraak.

All brought together now, at a point of temporal weakness, the air around the masks seemed to distort, resonating with the Dragonborn's final artefact. Snowflakes dropping into their aura evaporated instantly, unable to disturb the mighty warrior's final task. Reaching into the bag, the Dragonborn pulled out a small cylinder.

The Elder Scroll of Dragon. Stripped of its outer shell, only the paper of the inner scroll rested in his hand, but it seemed to be heavier than ever. He was getting old. This was his time. But he would not enter Sovngarde weighed down by his sins, his pledges to the Daedra, the blood of innocents that had wet his blade.

This was why he had ventured here. He wished for redemption. And here, on the highest peak in the world, the site of the banishment of the God of Destruction through the mists of time, the site where he had betrayed a great ally… He would find it.

He held the scroll before his eyes, and slowly unfurled it. The familiar runes shone bright, searing his vision, a burning pain that seemed to reach into his very soul. He brought it down, casting it away in pain. It flew into the distortion of the masks, and its movement halted. It span to a stop.

Opening his eyes, the Dragonborn looked to the sight. Once again, the scroll shone. But now the light no longer burned, but seemed to stretch from the paper, into the space before it. The circular markings emanated outwards, pulling the Nord's body forth by some irresistible gravity. The light enveloped and consumed him, but it did not frighten him. He knew where he was going.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

He reopened his eyes in an inky blackness. The world had simply disappeared around him, and now all that remained was darkness. This was a blank realm, a plane of Aetherius unshaped by divine hands. He took a deep breath.

"I seek Audience!" He cried into the darkness. No noise responded. He tried again.

"I have shown my worth! I have presented the trophies from my mightiest enemies, and I dema…" He faltered. This was his baggage. His pride. A part of every Nord, perhaps, but his had led to many deaths. Also, in the case of the one he addressed, it would be wise to show respect. He changed his tone.

"I… request your help. In the name of the blood we share, I beseech your aid."

Mist began to swirl around the Dragonborn. His head twisted back and forth, almost in disbelief. All the talk from the Thalmor had almost had him convinced. He spoke again, this time stronger. A smile began to break across his face.

"I have fought, I have tried, I have vanquished. But I have not always been honourable. Today, I seek to purge my spirit of the filth it has dredged through. Today I reclaim my name as a true Nord of Skyrim!" The mist began to swirl inwards, drifting slowly to a point before the Dragonborn, who was rapidly becoming rather excited, roaring through a manic grin into the void.

"And with your help, Dragon of the North, I will enter Sovngarde, and live forever among the greatest men ever to walk the face of Tamriel!" The mist had formed a figure, tall and strong, and in a flash of light, it was solid. The man wore a winged steel helmet, ornate golden armour, and shining gauntlets and greaves. In one hand was a simple sword, worn with use, but sharp as a razor. A regal red cape trailed on the floor behind him, bearing the crest of the Empire. His face was worn and lined, but not without a smile. It was a warrior's smile, one with fire behind the eyes, and the mirth of the fighter. The Dragonborn instantly took a knee before the man, bowing his head. His endeavour had succeeded.

He was before Talos, God of War and Man.

Seeing the gesture of respect, the old emperor laughed.

"Stand, Last Dragonborn." He walked forward, sheathing his sword, and offered the man a hand. "You should go easy on your bones." The Dragonborn took the hand and hauled himself to his feet, not without a twinge of pain. He smiled at the old Hero, relieved to know it had not all been for nought. He opened his mouth to explain himself further, but Talos held up a hand to silence him.

"You need not explain. I know your predicament." He walked a few paces away from the Dragonborn, beginning to narrate to himself.

"You feel you have no right as you are to enter Sovngarde, burdened by your sins. You wish to purge yourself, but do not know how." The old Hero turned back to the Dragonborn. His face was now impassive.

"I can tell you why you have led such a life. I struggled with the same problem in my time on Nirn. It is within our blood. The blood of the dragons." Talos took a breath, and used the ability shared by the pair of warriors.

"_**YOL!**_" He shouted. Fire shot from his mouth, igniting on the invisible floor of the realm. In it images began to form; a soaring dragon, breathing death onto a settlement.

"The _Dov_ seek control, they feel the urge to dominate all in their path. We are the same. We stop at nothing for power." Images of his life flashed before the Dragonborn, scenes of death and malice. He averted his gaze, not wishing to relive his many mistakes. The Hero-God tilted his head questioningly. "Why do you show such shame? Your power has banished much evil from the face of Skyrim. You have also improved the lives of many."

More faces flashed through the flames, ones that the Dragonborn did not miss. Jaree-ra, the scheming Argonian. Mercer Frey, betrayer of the Thieves' Guild. Many bandits that had inflicted savage wounds. The Dragonborn felt no joy having hastened their deaths, but he acknowledged the god's point. The flames extinguished themselves. The two men looked at each other, and Talos soke again.

"You also fear that there exists none who could defeat you in battle." The Dragonborn nodded.

"A true Nord dies sword in hand." Talos smiled again.

"True. I can help you with all your problems. You are honourable at heart, and have proven your abilities to be without parallel. You tore the fabric of space asunder to die a good death, and who could refuse a man that dedicated?"

The god drew his sword, holding it lightly by his side. "If you wish me to do so, I can sever you from your draconic soul, leaving you as the honour-driven man you wish to be. Everything that made you murder, or steal, or menace, cut from you. But it will seek vengeance."

"To be fair, I would do the same." The Nord smiled, floating in Euphoria, his prayers seemingly fully answered.

Talos continued. "Much like the spirit of the beast blood, it will turn on you. Try to claw its way back inside. As it is your very soul, you will be greatly weakened. It will possibly be a fight you will not emerge from. If felled by your dragon, you will be left in the void, powerless, at the whims of the Daedric Princes. Succeed, however, and you regain your strength, reabsorbing your soul from the Dragon, and passing into Aetherius with your might unparalleled." He ran a finger along his blade's edge, then looked up at the Dragonborn, mirth all but gone. "Are you sure you wish to proceed?"

"I can't go back. Not now." He replied. "And besides, what good is a fight with no stakes?" Talos grinned, showing white teeth.

"Then die well, kinsman." He swept his sword through the Dragonborn in a quick arc. Gasping at the bizarre feeling, his vision once again turned white…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

He stumbled back, his feet meeting the snow of the Throat of the World. The distortion from the masks had all but disappeared, now a mere ripple in the air. He looked around, seeing no spirit-dragon to fight. His eyes narrowed. He drew Alduin's Fang.

Suddenly, his old body was struck by a terrible agony, as if thunderbolts now flowed through his veins. He cried out, dropping the sword and falling to his knees. Another jolt crashed through his body, and it brought his hands to the floor. He struggled to keep himself up. Before his eyes, claws and horns of ethereal matter formed around him, as if he had called upon the Dragon Aspect. They began to vibrate, tearing themselves away from him, jarring his limbs and wrenching his bones.

Eventually they broke away, a small dragon formed before him, still no more than glowing horns and eyes. The eyes… Burning red and filled with malice, shining with an all-too familiar hatred. It screeched at him, scuttling off towards the bones of Parthurnax.

The warrior pulled himself upright, grasping the hilt of his weapon. He felt drained, as if once again in the Soul Cairn. He propped himself up on the hilt, panting from exertion. His soul had settled into the corpse of Parthurnax, and seemed to melt into the old bones. Dark, grisly flesh began to grow around them, forming over ribs and between wing struts. Soon, a colossal dragon stood before him, black as ebony and radiating darkness. It was covered in oozing sores, unhealed wounds, and sharp, jutting spikes. It looked grotesque, like the plaything of a cruel god, and its mouth seemed to have too many teeth, made not to eat, but to draw blood. Thrashing its wings, it lifted itself into the sky, where it gave a great roar and spewed flames unto the clouds. It looked horribly… appropriate. It was a part of him, and he knew it.

But not for much longer. The last Dragonborn hefted his blade, and took a deep breath. He would slay this dragon, like countless others before it.

"_**JOOR ZAH FRUL!**_ "

The shout of the Tongues flew from his lips, and the Dragon roared in pain. It crashed to the snow of the peak, outraged at the unholy words of Dragonrend.

Atop the highest mountain of Tamriel, in the centre of a ferocious blizzard, the Last Dragonborn charged to face his own evil. He had never felt so alive.

**This is the first part of two. The second part will have the fight with the dragon, as well as another big fight, of proportion yet to be seen on the face of Tamriel… I will have it up soonish, but for now just let me know how you liked this. I did it on a whim, really, so I'm not sure if it's any good. Drop a review if you liked it, or if you didn't like it, or for any other reason, really! Just let me know how I did.**

**See you soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's the next part. Enjoy!**

The Dragonborn charged forward, a savage roar splitting the air. He brought the weapon down on the Dragon's snout, sending flames, frost and electric arcs playing over the scaly skin. Screeching in pain, the wyrm tore its head away, only to receive another blow to the midnight skin of its neck. Grunting with exertion, the Dragonborn bared his teeth. Before, a few blows like that would cut right through a dragon like butter. Was he really so weak without the power of the Dragonborn? Was his evil really the true cause of his might?

The foul creature's head shot forward, clamping jaws over the shoulder of the distracted man. The armour held strong, but began to creak ominously under the enormous pressure. Gritting his teeth and chasing away his unwanted thoughts, the Dragonborn bashed his partially-trapped weapon against the beast's head. The Dragon recoiled slightly, but the grip remained strong. Sensing an advantage, the man looked into the dragon's blazing red eye, and smiled. The eye widened and the grip lessened, but too late. A helmeted head smashed into the winged nightmare's right eye, squashing the sensitive organ to a pulp. The half-blind monster ripped its head back, teeth raking over the armour, a vicious canine catching the exposed chin of the man. He flinched, stumbling back a step, but quickly recovered and lunged forward, burying the blade deep into the Dragon's chest. Another agonised screech shook the battlefield, and the Dragon gave an almighty beat of its wings.

It jerked into the sky, tearing the sword from the warrior's grasp. Now unarmed, he watched as the wounded _dov _rose into the sky, seeking respite from the relentless blows. He watched it finish its ascent and begin circling the peak, whereupon he whipped a small package of intricate golden metal. At the press of a button, it expanded, pieces extending and aligning, until he held a full-sized Dwarven Crossbow. Certain modifications had been made in recent years, and now they proved to be worthwhile. Pulling a bolt from a pouch on his belt, he quickly loaded the crossbow and began to fire at the circling shadow. Two bolts stuck in the chest, another tearing through the thin wing skin.

The Dragon turned, swooping down with its mouth open. Expecting a gout of fire or frost, the man braced, turning his exposed face away. Instead, however, was a shout that surprised him.

"_**ZUN HAAL VIIK**_!" The words of Disarm crashed into the defending man, sending his crossbow tumbling down the mountainside. The dragon passed over the man's head, seemingly taunting. Growling and muttering at the arrogant shadow, the Dragonborn reached for his other hip. A Dragonbone Dagger, made and enchanted by his own hands. A weapon of last resort, it could pierce through any armour it came up against, and the lilac runes of Soul Trap glowed on the blade. He twirled it on his fingers, holding it blade down, and looked to the reapproaching dragon. It was circling for another attack, mouth open again. The Dragonborn sunk to the floor, willing his abilities into action. Such was his skill at being undetected, the Dragon stopped in its tracks. With a beat of its wings, it was motionless in the air, save for the flapping of it's wings. It growled in anger, its prey slipped between its talons. For a moment, there was no sound but the howling of the wind. Then its wing-beats grew slower, and it crashed to the ground. Throwing its head this way and that, it surveyed the mountaintop with its one good eye. It growled again and took a breath.

"_**YOL TOOR SHUL**_!" It began to spray a trail of fire over the ground, seeking a patch that would cry out. It never found one.

Charging out from a sheltering rock, the battle-crazed Nord leapt at the Dragon from the right, approaching from its blind spot. He leapt onto the upper neck, wrapping his legs around it and squeezing tight. With one hand he grabbed a horn, and with the other he drove the dagger into the weakly-armoured flesh of the neck. Blood began to spurt from the wound, flowing over the armoured fist of the dragonslayer. The festering monstrosity began to thrash around, dashing blood onto the snow. Its cries began to weaken, and the thrashing grew less vigorous as more blood gushed away. It began to sink to the ground, slowly dying. The man above it grinned in victory and relief, relaxing his grip slightly.

A mistake.

In a final spasm of spite, the dying, exsanguinated _dov _gave one last jerk, throwing its head back with the last ounces of strength it possessed. The Dragonborn flew back, his grip torn open, and felt a sharp, arcing pain in his back. A razor-sharp spine had pierced a chink in the armour, stabbing deep into his flesh. He cried out in pain, and wrenched himself free, falling to the ground by the now-dead dragon. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling up to the face of the dragon, one hand on his back, trying hopelessly to stop the flow of blood.

The dragon began to burn up, as would any other dragon before it, but now acrid smoke rose from the body, swirling into the sky. Looking into it, the bleeding man saw his deeds of old, the innocents murdered, the gold snatched from pockets. He tore his gaze away. It was no longer his sin.

The flesh continued burning away, once again leaving the lifeless skeleton. The soul flowed into him, and he felt his muscles swell, his strength return. He felt light, lighter than he had for a long time. The euphoria slowly faded away, leaving him with a soft numbness. He let go of his back. It would do no good now, the wound too deep for any spell or potion to heal. Besides, he was ready to go.

He pulled his Greatsword from between the ribs of the skeleton, returning it to its sheath. Walking over to the word wall, he suddenly felt very tired. He took a seat at the base, and a bottle from his pocket. Fresh mead. He brought the bottle to his lips with a shaking hand, taking several long gulps before throwing the bottle away. He smiled faintly to himself. His battle was not over. It had barely begun. But for now, he could rest.

In the now calmed air, atop Skyrim's mightiest mountain, the Last Dragonborn happily breathed his last.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

He awoke once again in the darkness, another empty world, but the mist was not benign now, more a choking smoke. This was not Aetherius, and neither was the God of War there to guide him. It was Oblivion. His body had become young once again, as he was when he returned to Skyrim. Surrounding him were a circle of entities, none of which looked pleased.

Sixteen creatures, most humanoid, and all looking on him with an expression of disdain. The Daedric Princes.

Azura, a graceful woman clothed loosely in a glowing gown.

Boethiah, a heavy-set woman in heavy plated armour, fingering an axe.

Clavicus Vile, a horned man in a toga, with Barbas the dog at his heel.

Hermaeus Mora, a slithering pile of claws and tentacles with a single goat-like eye.

Hircine, a hunter clothed in skins and wearing a stag's skull.

Malacath, an orc clad in a loincloth, carrying a mighty Warhammer.

Mehrunes Dagon, in his infamous four-armed demonic form.

Mephala, a six-armed seamstress with a knowing grin.

Meridia, a radiant woman in fine cloth.

Molag Bal, a snarling demonic creature, with cloven hooves and curving horns.

Namira, a lady in priestess' cloth.

Nocturnal, a pale lady in a limp, dark dress.

Peryite, a green dragon baring its teeth.

Sanguine, a daedra, clad in dark armour and curling red tattoos.

Sheogorath, erratically clothed and unusually serious-looking.

Vaermina, in the robes of a mage and carrying a skull-headed staff.

The circle shifted, and the Dragonborn saw all at once. Cold terror flooded his heart. He had counted on the princes being too opposed to one another to collaborate in taking his soul.

"We are not pleased." Spoke Boethiah.

"For one to have such impudence as to align with us all…" snarled Molag Bal.

"…Is unusual." Growled Peryite.

"You never did look me up in New Sheoth…" Muttered Sheogorath.

"In your alignment with us, you promised us each your soul…" Said Nocturnal.

"So we are here to break it." Grinned Mehrunes Dagon.

"And believe us, we know how to do it." Smiled Hircine, lifting a skinning knife.

"Me especially…" Slurped Hermaeus Mora.

They approached the Dragonborn, who looked at them all with terrified wide eyes. He shoved a hole through the circle, seeking escape. Yet there was none. He saw the approaching Daedra, and instinct honed through decades kicked in.

"_**FUS RO DAH**_!" He shouted. The Thu'um took effect, knocking them all into the air, clearing space. As they recovered, the Dragonborn stared incredulously. Then a wide grin broke out across his face. "They have no power here! None can exert control over this plane!" He yelled to the princes across the distance:

"I am going to leave. You will not take my soul, and I will ascend to Sovngarde. You cannot stop me, for I am no longer bound to you." This elicited a round of laughter from the princes.

"And how exactly did you do that?" asked Vaermina.

"With the help of a certain Septim." Smiled the Dragonborn. There was a pause, as the Daedra winced collectively.

"Never was a sporting chap, that Martin." Mused Sheogorath.

"We still outnumber you, mortal. We can steal what will not be given." Spat Boethiah.

"Will you?" grinned the Dragonborn. He took a deep breath, and focused his power. "_Talos grant me strength_." He thought. He began to shout, faster than he had ever done before.

"_**OD AH VIING**_!_**DUR NEH VIIR**_!" As he spoke, two glowing portals opened beside him. Out of each stepped a dragon, one red and vitalised, the other grey and decaying. They stood stalwart by the Dragonborn, staunchly guarding him.

"_**HUN KAAL ZOOR**_!" The three Tongues appeared, standing by the Dragonborn, defending him, as was their vow.

The Dragonborn pulled his weapon from his back, feeling more alive than ever. The Tongues did the same, and the two oath-sworn Dragons took to the skies.

The Daedra produced weapons, standing off with the motley fighters. None moved for a few moments. The only sound was that of breath and heartbeat. The Dragonborn took a deep breath, and yelled:

"FOR SOVNGARDE!"

The battle began. The Dragonborn fought fiercely against the very forces he had conspired with so many years ago. And so many years later, he may fight with his companions yet more, drinking and laughing and sparring.

He ascended, and did know his honour again.

**There we are. Sorry if you were expecting another fight, but I just couldn't handle a fight that big. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this, always remember to review, and maybe I'll see you all again after ESO comes out!**

**Byeee!**


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